The Wrong Side of the Mirror
by agent000
Summary: Edward doesn't know why his life is so confusing. Either he's crazy or everyone around him has problems they need to address. He can't tell which way is normal. Maybe there is no normal. Or maybe he just lives in a world all his own.
1. Chapter 1

**_Hey, I'm writing again! Sorry for starting yet ANOTHER knew story, but I'm finally seeing that forcing myself to focus on writing one thing at a time makes me write less, not more. I just have to let myself come OUT!_**

**_So, this story's probably a little weird compared with all my others since it's more of an introspective piece than fantasy, but I'm hoping you enjoy it. I wanted to get it out. And I hope you can forgive all the "broken rules" for prose in this chapter. They're deliberate. I couldn't think of any better way to capture what I was trying to get at, haha._**

**_Anyway, hope you enjoy!_**

**_Disclaimer: Ed's not going to let me own him, nor is he going to let YOU own him. Stop getting your little fangirl hopes up!_**

I am an existence. That much I know right now, but no more. As I stare into the mirror upon brushing my hair in the morning, I even question that. My reflection does everything I do, but the wrong way. When I grab something with my right hand, he grabs something with his left. When I turn my head one way, he turns the other. But he always mimics my expressions perfectly. Or perhaps I am the one mimicking him.

I put down my brush and lean to rest my head on the cool, clean mirror. My double does it too. He always thinks of the same things I do, and I've never been able to trick him into doing things even a fraction of a second later. Somehow he always does the same things at the exact same time, like we think alike. But we don't think alike, because nobody thinks alike, do they? That's what everyone tells me.

I raise my head and look at my reflection once again, trying in vain to ignore the grease spot where my forehead rested a moment ago. My double is annoyed at the grease spot, and sharing a mutual look with each other, we get up at the same time and run off for something to clean it up with. A grease spot on a mirror just won't do.

It doesn't take long for the grease spot to be cleansed from the mirror, me doing the job on my side, him doing the job on his. We share another look of understanding and half-heartedly smile a thank you to each other, then turn and leave the room. Too much communication with one's double can get a bit awkward. Especially when one wonders sometimes if you're supposed to be the reflection and your reflection be in the place where you're standing. When we ever switched places, I can't recall, but I can't tell anyone or I may be destroyed.

I leave my bedroom and transform into my outdoor mode as my consciousness ascends and watches over my body while it goes about its daily tasks. I shall keep a close eye on Edward to ensure he makes it safely through the day unless such time comes that I need to pop back in to respond more immediately. I hope I don't have to.

Edward walks into the kitchen. Breakfast is necessary. He doesn't feel hungry right now, but breakfast is necessary. He knows what will happen later in the day if he doesn't eat. He opens the refrigerator and looks in, then closes it with disgust and looks around. There has to be something better in this place.

Al was sitting in the dining room within sight of the kitchen. Edward looks up at him, catches his eye, and then looks back at the refrigerator. "Hey, you, what are you eating?"

Al, seeming unperturbed as ever by the reference that avoids calling him by name, says, "I'm just eating some cereal, Brother."

"Yeck!" Edward shakes his head and opens the refrigerator again, inspects it again, then slams it again in disgust. "Isn't there any good food?"

Al shrugs. "Well, what do you want?"

"I don't know!" Edward's voice raises in pitch. "I just want food!"

"Geez, calm down, Brother!" Al takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh. "There is plenty of food in there. What's the problem?"

"I just need some real food!" Edward starts stomping around the kitchen, frustrated that no one seems to understand the situation and get any decent food. What made them think it was perfectly okay to just buy cereal all the time and expect that to be eaten for breakfast? Did no one think that maybe he didn't want to eat cereal for breakfast?

Just then, Winry walks in, sees the situation, and looks over at Edward. "Are you looking for something to eat, Ed?"

"Yeah..." he says irritably.

"Well, what do you want?"

"Food."

"Yeah, what kind of food?"

Edward crosses his arms. How is he supposed to know what kind of food he wants if that kind of food is clearly not there? Maybe if she were to take him to the store right then, he could answer that question properly.

It seems Winry is able to decipher Edward's problem with answering the question, because she then says, "Do you want something starchy, proteiny, or fatty?"

Edward uncrosses his arms. He can probably answer that question. "Something with protein would feel good."

"Okay," she says, and without another word, buzzes into the kitchen and starts preparing something. Edward shakes his head at her and leaves the kitchen to give her her space while she cooks. It's amazing how she can just know what he needs and give it at times.

In just a matter of minutes, she comes out with a steaming hot plates of scrambled eggs and bacon and calls Edward to the table to eat it, which he readily does. He nearly cries as he takes a bite of the lovingly crafted food and tastes the different flavors playing over his tongue. She even remembered to put brown sugar on it while it was cooking. He likes that. He smiles.

"Thank you," he says upon finishing and pushes his plate away, flashing an awkward smile to Winry, and getting up out of his seat to head back to his room.

But he decides not to go back all the way this time. He already dealt with Mirror Man today, and he doesn't want to find out if anything strange happened while he was eating breakfast. He will have to go back into his room soon, he knows, but he won't have to do it for at least a little while. He sits in a little alcove that hides him from view of the dining room, though he can still see them. The security helps him deal with being here, right now.

He stares at the figures in the room for several moments, he's not sure how long. Al finally finishes his plate and shoves it away, and then turns to Winry. "Why did you go and cater to him like that? He's perfectly capable of making his own food."

"Because," she says, "It was easy enough to do, and I don't want him to have an anxiety attack first thing in the morning."

Al rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. "He needs to learn how to handle things on his own. You shouldn't be encouraging his laziness."

Winry sighs and sits down in Edward's former chair with a plate of her own food. "Maybe you're right, Al, but-well-you know he's got problems. I just don't see any point in making him suffer over little things."

"How better to teach him how to handle the big things?"

Edward places his head in between his knees, refusing to cry, but refusing to look at the scene in the dining room any longer. If he doesn't look, perhaps it's not happening. He just wants people to accept him, not hate him. Does Al hate him? Does Winry?

Despite his efforts, Edward still manages to hear Al say, "Al he wants is attention, Winry. Stop giving it to him and he'll stop acting like this."

Edward couldn't take it anymore, and he jumped up and ran to his room, slamming the door closed behind him, and I abruptly fell back into my body just as the tears broke forth. I was a stupid, incompetent excuse for a human being, and I didn't deserve to live on this earth. I was just a pain to everyone I knew when I couldn't even decide on a meal suitable for breakfast without angering my loved ones.

I throw myself on the bed. I don't want to cry. It's not manly to cry, but it seems I can't help it any longer, since I'm already crying. I can't stop crying. I'm stupid. Everyone hates me. I have to stop crying and be normal, but I can't. I hate this. I hate this. I hate this!

I scream and rock back and forth on my bed, crossing my arms over my chest as though someone will come and stab me any moment for being a horrible nuisance. Would Winry do that since I made her cook for me when it seems she didn't want to? Would Al? I'm afraid, and I can't stop reacting, and I find myself rocking on my heels. I have to calm down. I have to. No one loves me when I get upset like this. I have to calm down.

Al throws the door open, sees me like this, and shouts, "Brother, calm down!"

Screams fill my head, wordless screams that are more like a current of electricity flowing down a river too small for it, and I grab my head to keep them from breaking it apart. Stop it, Al. Stop it! You have to stop now!

He doesn't listen. He never does. He comes and grabs me and tries to hold me still. "Brother, stop!"

I can't stop. The screams are getting louder. I'm going to fall apart if I don't silence the screams. They have to come out. Al lets go and holds his hands over his ears before shouting something else at me which I miss. I guess my screams became audible. I hadn't noticed.

They're still in my head. I have to get them to stop. I spin around to face the wall and bang my head on it. It has to stop. Bang. It has to. Bang. Stop. Bang. Just stop!

I feel my hair being tugged against the force I was using to drown out the screams, and I turn to see Winry standing behind me with her hand around my braid, tears streaming down her face. I broke her heart again. I'm such a horrible person. How could she possibly put up with someone like me? She must hate me, and if she doesn't, she should.

"Ed..." she whimpers, and throws herself around me in a hug. "Please don't hurt yourself. I'm sorry we hurt you. I'm so sorry."

And I start crying again. I am the one who hurt everybody, not her. She shouldn't be apologizing to me, I should be apologizing to her, but I can't. I try, and I can't. My mouth is doing its own thing now, and it doesn't even resemble speech. I am not even slightly manly at the moment as the two of us sit here and cry on each other's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Winry," I say once my mouth works again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm..."

"Don't be," she says, and she sniffles, breaking my heart once again at having broken hers. "We didn't know you were listening. I'm so sorry. We didn't want to hurt you."

"But I'm such a horrible person!" I say, and she shakes her head.

"No, you aren't. Please stop saying that."

"But I am!" I gulp. "Even you said I had problems."

She sighs. "You're emotionally disturbed, Ed. We don't yet know what's going on, but we're trying to find out. You're not a bad person for that."

"I feel like I am," I say, and turn away. She had looked up at me, and I don't want to look into her face. I was too ashamed to do so.

"You're not," she says. I don't respond, so she grabs my chin, makes me face her, and again says, "You're not!"

I close my eyes and cry some more.

Time slips by in that room, unknown to me. I don't know how long it takes, but eventually I settle down enough so that Winry is able to give me one last hug and leave. Al hugs me too and says that he's sorry he hurt me, though I know he's bothered by what happened. Both of them leave and shut the door, and I finally stand up and face the man in the mirror.

He's been through something just as bad, seeing how his cheeks are puffy and red. I sit down in a chair and stare into the mirror without saying anything for several minutes, watching as he does the same thing, and both of us try to understand the situation as best we can. Nothing comes to mind. Nothing that could explain what's going on, anyway.

I blink and lean forward so no one will hear me speak, and I whisper. "It looks like we're on our own here." I cough. "If we want to know what makes us so different, we'll have to figure it out for ourselves."

I stand up and walk back to my bed and flop down onto it. I must be crazy, talking to the mirror like that. I know very well my reflection isn't real, but I need it to be real to keep me sane. Or close to sane, whatever sanity is. I roll over and place a pillow over my face to shut out the world. If sanity exists, I have to find it somehow. I have to. I just have to.

**_Anybody have any ideas yet what's up with Ed? I'd be interested in seeing what you all think, though I have no idea whether I made it obvious or confusing, haha. Just let me know and I'll try to work the next chapters better. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and have a nice day!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Hmmm... FFN's being a little weird in how they're not sending out alerts for my stories OR for the reviews I get from this one, but at least I can check back on the site. So, none of my regular reviewers have read this story thus far that I'm aware of, but to those who've stumbled upon this story anyway and read it, thank you? I'm glad to know this story seems to be good enough to attract people even without relying on my following._**

**_And you guys all seem so intrigued by "Mirror Man". ((shakes head and chuckles)) That wasn't SUPPOSED to be a big part of the story, but since you like it so much, I guess I'll put him in more. You sillies. The things I do for you._**

**_Anyway, hope you enjoy this next chapter too._**

**_Disclaimer: Do I really have to say I don't own a piece of FANfiction? I say YOU'RE all the crazy ones if you don't know that, hehe._**

Open. Close. Open. Close. Do normal people spend much time looking at their hands? They should really wonder at their intricacy of design and ability to move and function in the ways we make them do. What if one little thing were to go wrong? Then where would they be if they didn't understand how it was put together in the first place?

My right hand is freezing right now. Al says it has poor circulation in that hand, though it only happens off and on. It feels like it is made out of metal. I have a lot of dreams where it actually is, and I could swear something happened to my reflected double a while back that made him literally lose his arm. Maybe something happened to me at one point that I can't remember clearly.

I sit up and walk back to the mirror and stare into it. My double looks normal today, even with my arm being cold. It must be one of my "closer to reality" days. Al would like that. He never appreciates it when I'm in my own world, but I don't usually notice I'm there until I'm not in it.

I squint and stare in the mirror for an indefinite amount of time. I don't know what I'm looking for. I never do, but there is a lot of information one can pick up from a mirror if they'll just look. Today I can see a haze around my reflection. It looks uncertain today, but determined. It makes my double look like he wants to understand life. Like I want to understand life.

I grab my coat and throw it over me, a dull brownish red tattered coat that I can't throw away, even though Al and Winry have both tried to convince me to. My mother gave it to me a long time ago, just before she died. It was red then. I have to keep it. I won't feel her presence anymore if I lose this last memento of her.

I face the door, take a deep breath, and brace myself. I'll be on my own out there in the outside world once I leave the safety of my bedroom. Maybe it would be wise to ascend and watch myself from above before I even step through the door. I close my eyes and allow it to happen, and I instantly feel better about going through the door.

So Edward opens the door and slips out, only casually responding to Al's and Winry's inquiries that he's going to the library. They don't mind him going there. It's a safe place. Winry reminds him that she's making stew tonight. He smiles and says he'll be back in time for dinner. Then he leaves the house.

The energy shifts around him as soon as he steps off the porch, and he takes a moment of breathing in the new air as he readjusts to the new world he has just stepped into. Most people might call this feeling "thrilling". He isn't sure what to call it, but he knew it was somewhere in between fear and freedom. He was now free to be himself, but exposed out in the world.

In a moment, the world shifts into the place it usually is when he steps out, and he walks semi-confidently away from the house. It's a pleasant spring day, and he feels no need to run today, so he can take the time to observe what he passes. It's what makes these walks worthwhile.

A squirrel chirps overhead in a nearby tree. A couple birds answer back, a jay and a robin. They may be arguing with each other, judging by how they're chirping. A few cars drive by, one honks its horn at him. Someone drops a pen cap on the sidewalk, right next to three rocks and a dandelion growing out of a crack. There is a colony of ants crawling around a few feet away. His shoes rub up against his feet, and he feels the rough effect of his day old socks. He really needs to change into some new ones. Someone spills gasoline nearby, another person is grilling pork within a block or two, and he is pretty sure he smells a butterfly bush on the breeze.

Now to observe the next block.

He fixes his eyes on the path in front of him. As much as people tell him to look up when he walks to facilitate a positive attitude, he just can't. He gets much more out of the earth than he does out of the sky. And it helps him not to trip over things, not that he really cares unless he carries a lot of stuff. Or trips into a colony of fire ants.

Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back. Well, his mother is dead, so stepping on a crack isn't likely to do her too much damage. He doesn't believe it would have hurt her even when she was alive, but cracks don't feel like a good thing to step on all the same. They have strange energy patterns running through them that he prefers to avoid, so he steps over all the ones he can without making his walking pattern awkward.

Another squirrel chatters at him from an overhanging tree, and he looks up to try and spot it, but it's hidden well. He smiles anyway. The squirrel picked a good tree. He can see the tree's ethereal branches growing out the tips of the tree's physical ones. It will grow a lot this season. It's a young and healthy tree.

Finally he reaches the library, and he enters, finds the nearest seat, and plops down into it. A slight dizzy spell washes over him as the world shifts again, but it's not a difficult shift. He decides that being in the library is a safe enough place to handle from within oneself.

So I fall back into my own body, stretch, and get up to look through the shelves of books. I'm a bit overwhelmed at what I should choose to read, but I'm not afraid. All of these books are good, honest friends. A book cannot lie to you, hate you, or judge you. Even if a person wrote lies into the book, they must write them truthfully. Books contain the highest truth humanity can offer.

I head to the psychology section. I want to know what is wrong with me, what makes people feel such an aversion to my presence whenever I open my mouth, but I freeze as fear envelops me when I stand in the same aisle as those books. Those books could say I'm crazy, and if I'm crazy, then what? I can think deeply as any of my loved ones know, so I'm not stupid. And I question my sanity, which makes a lot of people say I'm not insane. I'm not so sure that test holds water, since there are so many people who land in mental hospitals without knowing it's coming. I don't want to ever land in one, but I've been mentally steeling myself for it all my life, just in case. It's probably coming. I don't know other people's definition of sanity, and I might cross over the line.

It might be better if I hold off on those books, so I decide to focus on something a little less intense for now. I turn and head toward the science section. This section is always friendly toward me and never accuses me of lunacy, though some people might. Still, I'm drawn to it. I love science. I can't stay away from it, so I don't try.

I grab a book off the shelf, Alchemists and Their History. Not a very catchy title, but it's one of the few alchemy books in this library I haven't yet read, so I'll read it anyway. Maybe the metaphysical section will be a little more fruitful.

The metaphysics are in the 130's, I remember, and I wish I was already there to look at the books. I part company with my body and fly over the shelves to the 130 section and wait for Edward to catch up. If only physical bodies didn't take so long.

Finally he arrives, and we reunite into one being. I don't remember exactly what I was looking at, but I have a feeling about a few of the books on the shelf, and I pick one up. Alchemical Symbolism. That one's not too bad, though it's a little difficult to read through in one sitting. Still, I put it in my arms to be browsed. My mind snaps up then to look at more books while my body continues to investigate the books in my arms.

I snap back and grab another book off the shelf, The Practise of Magick in the Kitchen. Okay, not exactly alchemy, but it might explain some things about it anyway. These sorts of books usually do. I place it in my arm and leave to find a table. Three books is plenty for one visit.

I sit down and open the first book, and begin to melt into the pages, losing my identity to it. I want this to just flow effortlessly, to just unite with the book properly, but this first book tries too hard to show off just how amazing a vocabulary they have, and I keep noticing the words and snapping out of my trance. I slam the book shut and shove it away. That book doesn't want to be my friend, and I'm a bit hurt by it, but I'll try again later when I've actually mastered more words.

The second book proves to be just as difficult, though I'd known it would be. The book of symbols is more of an encyclopedia than a book one could just read, though it doesn't matter too much to me, except that melting into it would be impossible.

I push it away and open the third. I start melting into this one once again, and the wording is simple and elegant, which makes me forget I'm reading. Makes me forget I'm Edward. Makes me forget about Al and Winry back at home and that I have a life to live. I fall into an ocean of words and have to choose whether to adjust to breathing in the ocean or to drown while trying to fight my way back out. I choose to breathe.

Some time passes. I notice when the book hits a section of low tide, and I emerge from my venture into it. I look out the window. The sky had grown dark, and I feel panic splash over me. What time is it?

I check my watch. Seven o'clock. I had missed the dinner hour, and Winry would not be pleased. She would be worrying about me, or probably already was worrying, and here I had forgotten all about her while I was here. How could I have been inconsiderate enough to do that? What had come over me?

I scramble to place the books back in the exact locations I had found them. The library doesn't like me replacing books on the shelves, but I know exactly where they go. I figure I'm doing them a service by not making them put my books back, not to mention that I won't have to wait for them to put them back there for me the next day if I do it. I check my watch again, whimper at how several more minutes have passed, and bolt out of the library.

Going home at night is a lot more terrifying than it is coming to the library during the day. I don't like the feel of the people at night, though the night itself feels wonderful. And I can't take the time to ascend and watch myself. I have to be present in the moment in order to make good time, though time seems to stretch on forever. I'm feeling fear. Lots and lots of fear. I hope I get home soon.

A car horn honks and I jolt. Are they after me? I have a vision of the police pulling over and grabbing me and taking me away from Al and Winry forever. I don't even know what I would have done to get them on my case like that, but I never seem to know. People just don't like me very much.

I sigh in relief. It's just an ordinary car-but why did it honk at me? Did I do something to offend the driver? I feel my eyebrows tense up as I continue to run past the area, all the while looking back over my shoulder just in case I should figure out what I had done to anger the man so.

I finally arrive back at my own house, and not a moment too soon. I throw the door open and run in, take a deep, relieved breath, then remember that I'm late for dinner and have to put up with panicked people, and I begin to panic myself. Maybe I should leave now before they notice me here? No, that would be too cruel, but I'm terrified. Maybe they really don't like me very much if I keep making them worry like this. Maybe I'm really hurting them by continuing to exist. Maybe...

Arms out of nowhere cinch themselves around me without warning. I gasp for breath. Winry looks up at me. "Ed, where were you? I was so worried! You said you'd be back by dinner!"

"I know," I say, "I'm sorry."

"Where were you?" she demands again.

"At the library."

She pulls her hands away, and glares at me. I avert my eyes. I probably deserve to have her furious with me right now, but it's so hard to take.

"At the library," she repeats. I nod. "Didn't it occur to you that we would be home, sick with worry if you didn't show up when you said you would?"

I don't have a good answer for that, so I continue to look away. I knew she would worry if I was late, and I hadn't intended to be late, but here I was, late. I don't know what's wrong with me.

"Can't you keep track of the time?"

I shrug. "I don't know." That's about the most communication I dare give at this moment.

"You don't know?" She leans forward, like she's trying to force me to look into her eyes. I refuse to. It hurts too much.

"You seriously don't know." I shake my head and wonder if she can do anything but repeat what I say. I hope she can. And I hope she'll decide to love me again.

She sighs and looks away, and I look at her a little more, though still not directly. I don't dare do that yet.

"What were you doing to make you lose track of the time?"

"Uh-reading?"

"Reading."

Sigh. More repetition. "Yes."

She rolls her eyes and walks away from me, shaking her head. "I don't know what to do with you, Edward." I watch her walk away, wondering what I'm supposed to be doing now. I'm not sure if this is my home anymore since I made her get so angry and worried.

She turns around to face me. "Well, aren't you going to come and get some stew?"

My insides brighten, but my spirit still feels a bit queasy. I'm not a hundred percent sure I'm accepted here again, but she assumes I'm going to sit down to eat anyway. That's at least something. That shows that she still cares.

I smile, tell her I'll be right back, and run to my room to take off my coat. I hang it on the back of the chair, and then look up and see my reflection is in a strange mood to have a metallic arm at the moment. Al wouldn't like that if he knew. I point at my double, say, "Don't say a word," then leave the room to get dinner. I have to figure out what's wrong with me. I have to find a way for Al and Winry to like me. I don't want to hurt them anymore. I just want to be someone they can be proud of.

I guess all that translates into is that I want to be me.

**_Hope that was good. Feel free to let me know what you think and ask questions. I'm not a hundred percent sure where to go with this story just yet, I just know what's going on with Ed's mind. If you have ideas on what he should deal with in the outside world, by all means, suggest!_**


	3. Chapter 3

**_It honestly surprises me how much this story is liked when I'm just writing it without knowing exactly where I'm going and flying by the seat of my pants. I guess I'm flattered? Heh heh... even I'm confused on this one. Anyway, thanks for the support, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter._**

**_Disclaimer: I don't personally see any reason to put up a disclaimer on every single chapter since it's obvious I don't own FMA, but if you need one, then... Ooh! Something shiny!_**

Please don't torture me with the thought of going to school. Just let me sleep. I'm sick today, see? I try to cough to convince myself, but it sounds stupid even to me. I groan and roll over onto my side, then grab my pillow and pin my head under it. Stupid sun, rising up at a time I do not approve of getting up. Just let me sleep some more, and don't tell me I have to go to school. I don't have to go. I'm smart enough without the teachers deliberately trying to make me stupider.

Winry knocks at my door and enters. I pop my eye open briefly to see who it is, then close it again, hoping she didn't see my eye open and assume I was awake. I just want to be left alone. I hate Mondays. I don't like school, just leave me alone.

She sits on the bed and starts rubbing my thigh. "Ed..." she says gently.

I moan. She's being nice I suppose, except for the waking me up part, but I don't want to get up. Just leave me alone and go find someone else to pick on!

"Ed..." she says again.

I guess I have to say something, but I'm not sure what I can get away with saying. I settle on, "Whaaaaat?"

She chuckles. "It's time to get up and get ready for school."

I bury my head further under my pillow. She used the S-word. I do not want to deal with such a horrid thing, and hopefully if I ignore things long enough, she'll go away and not make me go to school today.

"I got you something."

That's just evil, luring me out of my sleep by promising to give me something for it. I could say that I'll look at it later, but then I'll be tossing and turning in bed until I find out what it is. She's just mean, she's evil, she's-

She holds up a small circular object on the end of a short chain. Its motion twists back and forth and glints in the sunlight. I finally zero my attention in on it and put the mental puzzle pieces together on what it is. It's a key chain mirror.

Winry smiles. "I noticed that you seem to like mirrors a lot, so I thought having one to carry around might make you feel better while you're out."

I don't know what to say. I'm not sure if there's anything I could say if I tried to think, anyway. I reach out wordlessly and take the peace offering from her hand and stare into the little reflective surface. Small mirrors don't capture as much as large ones and so could be argued as less magical, but they still have a magic all their own. She must know that on some level. Hardly anyone seems to notice, but it seems she has.

I close my eyes and whisper, "Thank you". I sound stupid to my ears, but she pats my head and says, "You're welcome", then gets up and says breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Her ploys for getting me up on school days are diabolical.

I'm awake now and she knows it, so there's not much point in trying to fake it any longer. I take a deep breath and stand up, stretch, scratch my head, and look around for anything odd in the room. Everything seems to be exactly how I left it the night before, except perhaps for that little container of lip balm. I could swear I had placed it about a couple inches to the right of where it now stood. Maybe Winry moved it when she came in, but I still shivered involuntarily. It isn't where it's supposed to be, and it's making me uneasy.

I put the container back where it belongs, then make my bed, change my clothes, and brush my hair. My double looks disturbed too. Maybe he has just as much trouble at school. Or maybe his Winry moved his lip balm too. I wave goodbye to the mirror and wish my reflection good luck, then leave my bedroom, ascending to watch over myself as I pass through the door.

Edward walks into the dining room and sits at the table as Winry hands him a plate of scrambled eggs and hash browns, which he devours gratefully. He says thank you, then grabs his back pack and bolts out the door, because if there's one thing worse than waking up on a Monday, it's being late to school on a Monday. He could swear he hears Al clicking his tongue as he walks out the door, and say, "Why does he always leave half an hour too early?" He doesn't stay long enough to hear Winry's response.

The breeze is warm this morning, and Edward takes the risk of slowing down a little bit, but not too much. He doesn't want to be late. Al doesn't seem to realize just how long it takes to get to school. A thousand things can slow you down. He could run into construction, find someone who needs some help, fall into a manhole-or something. Anything could make him late, and he hates being late.

After talking to every bird and squirrel on the path to school, he finally arrives at school, and his stomach falls down to his heart-or perhaps it's the other way around. Those things can be hard to keep track of at times. There were so many people running around. People his age. He could never understand his peers all that well. Why couldn't he be visiting a nursery home or a daycare right now? Why did it have to be high school?

He shoulders his backpack and saunters on. It does no good to mope over being at a place he has no options about. He might as well get through the day as best he can. He runs to his locker and puts his things away, then grabs the books he needs for his first class and runs to class.

First period is always deadness training for the day for Edward. The people in charge of his schedule picked well, or maybe he's just good at adapting. The first class of the day is Social Studies, and he doesn't care too much how alive he feels during this class. He'll just BS his way through it anyway.

He sits with his head propped on his fist, staring straight forward, his jaw hanging wide open like an idiot. His eyes are still open, and he isn't snoring, so he shouldn't be mistaken for sleeping, but he isn't listening, and he hopes the teacher doesn't call on him. The teacher sounds like one of the Charlie Brown teachers anyway, even when he tries to listen.

Edward stares at the blackboard. He feels dead. Therefore, that must mean he is, as least for now. Maybe he won't be dead later. He's temporarily dead.

He notices a date on the blackboard: 1772-1844. If that's a person, they're dead. Just as dead as he is today. Dead, dead, dead...

"...Benjamin Franklin..."

Really, the teacher could speak now? No, they were speaking Charlie Brown again, but he'd understood the one thing. He didn't think Benjamin Franklin and the date on the blackboard really had any connection, except that Benjamin Franklin was dead too by now. Yep, everybody was dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead...

"Edward?"

Edward looks up and sees his teacher looking at him. "What?" he says.

The teacher rolls her eyes. "I asked if you would answer the question."

His eyes dart to and fro, but he garners nary a clue about what the teacher had just asked. He sighs. He would just have to look stupid and put up with it.

"What question?"

The class erupts in laughter, and he shrinks into his seat. He tries to pretend he thinks it's funny too, but it isn't. He doesn't know what's going on, and it's horrifying. Why can't people just tell him what's happening rather than mocking him every time he doesn't understand something?

The teacher silences the class, then repeats the question, but Edward doesn't understand it at this point, he's too mortified. She's growing more flustered with him every moment, but he's too paralyzed to do anything, and he goes into his shell all the more.

Frustrated, the teacher tells him to see her after class, and the class continues. He's not sure if he should be relieved or apprehensive, so he's apprehensive. He starts to get a headache, and he starts jotting down random things on his arms. It tickles, but it helps to distract him from what he's dealing with at the moment, enough to not keel over and die from fear of what the teacher's going to do to him after class.

The bell rings, and it's the worst sound in the world to Edward. It means he has to deal with the teacher one-on-one. The other students pack up and leave, and Edward sits still, waiting to be told what to do. The teacher gestures for him to come up to her desk, and he does so. She drills him on the current course of study, and he stutters as he fumbles for answers. He can't deal with this right now, can't she see that?

Her eyes fall on the written-on arm, and her accusing expression changes to a curious one. "When did you do this?"

He grabs his arm to protect himself. "After that-whole thing..."

He moves his hand and looks at what he's written for the first time. He had partially known what he was doing, but as the realization sinks in, he realizes he had been writing all the answers to all the questions asked.

"So," says the teacher, "You do know the material. Why don't you answer when I call on you?"

"I-" Edward shakes his head, tries to speak and fails, and so shrugs the rest of his response.

The teacher sighs. "Very well. If you submit a written copy of what we discuss each day, I won't mark you down for lack of participation, okay?"

Edward gulps and nods, and the teacher dismisses him. He leaves the room in a daze. He doesn't know how to handle the rest of the day if the first period is like that.

But this day, he's able to remain dead the rest of the day, only waking up briefly for his science and art classes. It's not great, but he's living through it.

The final bell rings, and he hurriedly grabs his things and runs out to his locker. He stuffs his backpack and slings it over his shoulder, just as he remembers the date. Both Winry and Al work on Monday afternoons. He has his own key, but he sees no point in going home right away if no one's expecting him back. He shrugs and turns to run to the school library.

As soon as he steps into the library, he questions his decision to come here, since everyone else seems to have the same idea on this particular day, and there are no free tables. There are free seats at some of the tables, but there is no way he's going to just sit down next to a random person, not in a million years.

He freezes and looks around nervously, like a startled dog trapped in a dark alley in the midst of a big city. He doesn't want to leave, but he doesn't want to stay. Even the library doesn't want him at the moment. There seems to be no way out of this one. It stinks. Can't there be one place where he'll feel safe? Just one? Can't he at least be safely home at the library?

A timid voice breaks through the miasma of his thoughts. "Um-you can-sit here-if you want to..." He turns and sees a little mousy-haired girl looking at him, shivering a bit as they meet each other's gaze, then both abruptly turning away from each other, but still looking out of the corners of their eyes. She's a stranger, and Edward's not sure how he feels about that. He doesn't like sitting next to strangers. But she looks a bit too timid to hurt him. Maybe she won't hurt him. Maybe him sitting next to her would hurt her, actually.

He has to make sure. "Are you sure it's okay?"

She nods. "It's okay." Then she turns back to her book, one in a stack of about ten. There are bookmarks in different places in each book, and he suspects that she's been reading a bit of each one. He wonders how long it's taken her to get this far with each of those books. Someone who likes books could be someone safe to sit next to, just so long as it wouldn't hurt her.

Perhaps he should trust her. She says it's okay, so maybe it's okay. He needs a place to sit if he wants to be in the library. He throws his backpack on the chair across from the girl, gives her a timid forced smile, and she returns the same, then he goes and grabs some books from the library shelves and comes back, opens a book, and reads.

The next thing he notices, the library is closing. The girl seems just as startled by the revelation as he is, and they exchange a look. He could swear she is thanking him for sitting by her, though he isn't sure why. Maybe she's just grateful that he kept other people from sitting by her who would interrupt her reading. That would make him grateful if it were him.

The two pack up and leave, her going one way, and him going another. It's only when he's a few blocks away from the school that he realizes he forgot to ask her name, and he mentally chastises himself for being so impolite. Rule number one about social interactions is to greet the person and then ask their name. How could he have forgotten that? He was such an idiot and would never make any friends if he couldn't even remember the basics. These things seem to come so easily to other people and so hard to him. It doesn't make sense.

He pulls out the mirror Winry gave him that morning and stares at himself in it. The Edward in the mirror seems to be deep in thought. Did he meet the same girl today? One wonders if that Edward managed to gain a little more insight than this Edward. If only there were a way to communicate between the two realms. Maybe there is, but he hasn't discovered it yet.

Edward looks up at the rest of the world, then back at the hand holding the mirror. A purple film of light encases his hand and trails off in the breeze. He must be thinking too hard. He drops his hand to his side and continues walking. Walking is good. Walking is normal. Walking he will do. No one gets mad at him for walking.

He comes upon the house, frowns and sighs. He's not ready to go home yet. He turns and continues walking down the street. No one gets mad at him for walking.

**_Again, I hope you liked that, and if you have any ideas for other things you'd like Edward to go through, by all means, suggest. Sooner or later I'll hopefully know where I'm going. Feel free to guess at what's going on with Edward too, as this will tell me how well or poorly I'm describing it, hehe._**


	4. Chapter 4

**_Huh, this story's just now starting to get a bit more notice. Interesting. Took it a few chapters, but it's still being pretty well received thus far, and it's mostly new people who are reviewing. I must be shifting my following since this is a weird story for me, hehe._**

**_Anyway, glad you liked that chapter, hope you like this one too!_**

**_Disclaimer: Me no own. Stop asking! Oh wait, you've never asked._**

Back at the local library, and I am myself once more. The one place I can be safe outside of my room. If only there were more places where I could drop my guard, but books are good friends.

School was rough today, though every day is rough. I don't understand how Al and Winry handle swinging both school and a part-time job. There is no way I can handle that. I want to. I feel pitiful whenever I approach the job subject, but school makes me panic enough as it is. I can't take a job too.

I sigh and look up at the shelf of books before me. Do I dare read these ones today? They may tell me I'm crazy, and I really don't want them to do so. I want to be sane, but it's not looking like I am sane. It's looking like I'm crazy. And if I'm crazy, maybe there's a cure for it in one of these books, or at least clues about what's wrong so we can find a cure. That would make me stop being crazy, wouldn't it?

I take a deep breath and grab the first book that I think I can stomach and race for a table before I can change my mind. My heart is racing and my limbs are shaking, but I have to brave this in order to understand myself. I didn't even pick a very difficult book to start with, or a difficult diagnosis. It's only a book about depression. Why am I so scared?

I flip it open and start scanning through it. Once one learns the language of books, one can usually tell what to skip, since people have a habit of repeating themselves over and over again in the same book. This book is no exception. I page through the book until I come to a list of the symptoms of depression and read:

Depressed mood most of the day; feeling sad or empty, tearful

Significant loss of interest or pleasure in activities that used to be enjoyable

Significant weight loss (when not dieting) or weight gain; decrease or increase in appetite

Difficulty sleeping or sleeping too much

Agitation; or slowing down of thoughts and reduction of physical movements

Fatigue or loss of energy

Feelings of worthlessness or inappropriate guilt

Poor concentration or having difficulty making decisions

Thinking about death or suicide

I shiver again, feeling a bit paranoid as I read this. I can relate to some of the symptoms. Is that a bad thing? I know my mood is often a bit down, I have trouble sleeping, I'm always a bit fatigued, I feel guilty and worthless, I don't concentrate well on things I should, and death is a constant thought. Oh great, I'm depressed!

I flip through a few more pages and gather whether this is a useful text or not, then get up and check out the book. I'm going to go home and show this to Al and Winry to see what they think.

I enter the door some minutes later, and reveal the book in my hands. "I think I might be depressed," I say.

Winry looks concerned. "What makes you say that?"

I flip open to the list of symptoms and point out the ones I resonate with. I explain that I'm well aware that something's wrong with me, but until I read this, I had no clue as to what it could be.

At this point, Al wordlessly gets up out of his chair, leaves the room for a moment, then comes back with a small stack of books and slaps them on the table. I stare stupidly at him for a moment, not understanding the gesture, then over to the stack of books. My eyes get wide as I realize they are all about depression.

"Depression was the first thing I thought of when I noticed your bizarre behavior, Brother," said Al. "I've read almost every text on it I could find, including the one you just checked out." I gulp, not knowing what to say. I had no idea Al had been researching this subject on his own. I had thought I had to do it.

Al sighs and sits back in his chair. "You have a few of the symptoms, yes, but you have a few symptoms that none of these books addresses." He sits up straight and looks at me. "Not to mention that your depressive episodes seem to come and go, along with your weird episodes." He shakes his head. "Depression just sticks around. The person can fake it, but it's still there. It doesn't go away. And they don't get weird like you, unless they have another disorder with it."

My shoulders hunch over, and I'm not sure whether to be relieved or insulted at the way Al is talking. I am impressed that Al has been researching this subject enough to rule depression out right away, though I hate being spoken of like I'm crazy. I don't want to be crazy, I just want someone to fix the problem for me already.

I warily look up at him. "What other things have you ruled out?"

He leans his chin on his hand. "Quite a few, and there are quite a few that I don't know about because I've been afraid to ask you. I'm kind of scared of the answers I'll receive."

Heh, he's trying to be kind. I divert my attention down to the floor, where it's safer to look. Maybe an idea will come to me or him or Winry on what to say. Sometimes waiting solves the problem. Sometimes silence is helpful, though silence is really, really scary and I want it to end and I don't know what to say and I'm starting to freak out a bit and-

"Honestly," says Al, "A therapist would do a lot better job at narrowing things down, but we've been a bit nervous about asking you if you would go to one."

A therapist? They want _**me**_ to go to a therapist? But I haven't done anything wrong! Isn't that where crazy people go? Maybe this means I really am crazy. I must be, if they think I need to see a therapist...

Winry gets up from the table and comes over and hugs me. "Ed, it's okay. We won't make you go to one unless you say it's okay. It's just an idea."

"But you guys think I'm crazy," I say.

Winry shakes her head violently. "No, we don't! We've never thought that, so get that thought out of your head! You just need a little extra help so you can function in society. Most people need a therapist sooner or later these days."

I mumble, "Yeah, when they go crazy." Winry glares at me. I guess she heard me, even though I hadn't intended her to.

"Not just when they go crazy, Ed. A lot of people get traumatized because of something bad that happens in their lives and they need help to pull through. I don't think you ever got over your mom dying."

I frown. I always thought I had gotten over that, but maybe I didn't. Maybe I couldn't get over anything, even though Al could, which makes me a freak. No wonder Al always gets so mad at me, since he managed to get over something I should have gotten over years ago.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I realize it's Al's. He's looking at me solemnly, but not angrily. At least, I hope he isn't. My automatic fear response kicks in and I start second guessing myself, wondering if Al's mad at me for something again. "Brother," he says, "You started researching the situation yourself, and I'm proud of you for that. It means you're starting to heal."

I raise my eyebrows. "It does?"

He nods. "And it means you're not crazy either, since you're trying to understand your own problem. You have a problem, but that doesn't make you crazy. Most of the people in the world have some sort of problem. Especially our family." He chuckles nervously, and I oblige with a silent snort.

He looks into my eyes, and I turn away. His gaze hurts a bit. "I'm sorry I've been harping on you so much lately. I just don't understand what's going on. Try to help me out a bit here, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

He smiles, gives my shoulder a squeeze, and goes and sits back down. Winry turns to me and says, "The therapist thing is up to you, but do give it some thought. If you decide it's okay to go and see one, we'll schedule you an appointment, okay?"

I nod, not knowing what else to say, and not really wanting to deal with it right now, and so she goes and sits at the table smiling as well.

I feel drained and strained and pained and everything else I could be that doesn't feel good from being present with myself for too long today, and I bolt back to my room where I can recharge. I heave a deep sigh as soon as I slam my door shut, and I flop down onto my bed, turn onto my back, and stare at the ceiling.

Colors swirl around before my eyes. I'm torn between liking it and hating it, since I'm not sure it's right for a "normal" person to see colors, so I try to blink them away, but they're still there. They like to be persistent. The colors I see when relaxing are sort of pesky that way. I decide to just watch them rather than fight them, since fighting takes a lot of energy.

The yellow paints a sheet across the background, then the purple and red dance around before it, spinning off into green and blue. It's a little dizzying, but it's part of my world. It's there whenever I need it, and all I have to do is stare. The figures parade before me in their own definition of an art film.

The events of the day have taken their toll on me, and the shapes and colors cause my eyes to feel drowsy. I gradually lower them until they cover my eyes, but I can still see the colors. They've gotten behind my eyelids to continue their dance and ensure that I recharge myself properly from the day. It's the same as always. At least something is the same.

Knowing this, I stretch, spin over onto my side, and allow the colors to continue to dance as I drift off to sleep. I'll be re-energized in no time.

**_Anyway, hope you liked that chapter. Let me know what you think, and I'll try to get another chapter up as soon as possible. Glad people are starting to like this story. Thanks for the support!_**


	5. Chapter 5

**_Aaaaaand... I'm back! Finally! Phew! Hehe... My computer's still broken, but I finally got myself over my frump enough to just use the library computers and write the chapters at home by hand like I used to. I prefer not to go that route, but it's working for now. I've got several chapters written up, but they take a while to type, so you'll have to wait on the rest. Sorry, hehe._**

**_Disclaimer: Have you ever tried owning Ed? Not an easy task, and I'm not going to risk life and limb claiming to own someone like him._**

Mirror, Mirror, on the wall, who's the craziest one of all? I meet my reflection's gaze, but he doesn't answer the mental question. I'm sure he heard it, but he probably doesn't know the answer any better than I do. Would it just be easier to admit to being crazy and get on with it? What would they do to me if I acknowledged such a thing? Would they kill me? No one likes crazy freaks.

I sigh and turn away from the mirror. I have to get ready for school, and I'd put it off as long as I could. I stare in deadlock at my backpack for about five minutes before finally admitting defeat and slinging it over my back.

I walk out of my bedroom and ascend to watch over my body and continue toward the front door without a word to Al or Winry. They're having pancakes for breakfast today. Edward likes pancakes, but pancakes don't like Edward, and he's tried and failed to explain this to Winry. She always gets hurt in the explanation, so it's better to just skip a meal and hope to make it through the day than to force down sickening food.

He leaves the house and his stomach growls. He hates it when this happens, and he wishes he knew what to do about it. Today will be a rough school day if he can't eat a proper breakfast, and he knows it.

Social Studies in the morning is murder with an angry stomach, and that's simply the beginning. He can barely concentrate through his science and Consumer Ed classes and gets reproved by each teacher in turn. Finally, lunch period breaks, and he goes to the cafeteria with a major headache.

What should have been a welcome relief in the sights and smells of the cafeteria instead springs tears to his eyes. The food smells too strong and disgusting. They've used too much bleach to clean up after themselves, and he's getting nauseated. The lights are so bright and his headache is starting to throb. There are so many people in the room, and they won't stop yakking and yakking and yakking and yakking...

He plugs his ears and grits his teeth. It's too much! It's too much! Take it away! Take it _all_ away! But he's interrupted by the person behind him nudging him forward and reminding him that there is a whole long line of people following behind him.

I snap back into myself, and it's not because I'm feeling particularly safe. I'm feeling the opposite, and I guess my body thinks it needs protection, but who will protect my mind?

My eyes water up and I blink hard to avoid crying, but it's probably really obvious that I'm trying not to cry. I wouldn't know. Other people seem to pick up on these things. I can't stand the overwhelming stimulation of the cafeteria anymore, and I whirl on the boy who pushed me. "Leave me alone!" I shout. "Don't you _dare_ touch me!"

The boy just shrugs and makes a face as though he's trying to say he's innocent and can't fathom why I'd be upset by this. The idiot, he's no innocent. He didn't have to touch me. It's not my fault he decided to play the villain and I became his victim.

"What is your _problem?_" says the boy. "I was just letting you know that you were holding up the line!" Great, so you're going to hold up the line even more by talking with me about it?

"Leave me alone!" I shout again, "Just freaking leave me alone!" I would have used a worse word than 'freaking' in this situation, except that we are on school grounds. I have enough trouble with teachers already.

Speak of the devil, here comes one now, eyes set and determined in a dark look, arms crossed, mouth turned down more on one corner than the other. Not a very good look on anybody, but especially not a teacher.

"What the devil is going on here?"

I'm half tempted to laugh at that choice of wording, but I remember it's my Social Studies teacher and bite my tongue. She doesn't like me much anyway.

The boy next to me point to me and says, "He just started yelling at me for no reason!"

I have to defend myself on this one, as there absolutely was a reason, and she needs to see that. "He pushed me!" I blink, then remember that people usually seem to respond better if you use their names, so I as an afterthought, "Ms. Vogel."

She transfers her glare from the boy to me. "That is still no excuse to yell at him."

She's yelling at me for reacting, but not yelling at the boy for starting the whole thing? Why do I always get pegged with all the blame for these things? I grip my head and rock on my heels a few times. "I just can't take it today!"

"Well," she says, "If you can't handle yourself around other people, then you don't need to be around other people. Get your tray and go eat your lunch in my office, Edward. You will not be eating here today."

I thank her and rush as fast as the line will let me go to get my tray. As I run out of the cafeteria, I catch a very confused expression on the face of Ms. Vogel. Did I do something wrong again? Why won't anyone just tell me what I'm doing?

I reach her office and happily scarf down my food, finally having a place where I can hide out from all the other people and recharge myself. It's wonderful. Even the cafeteria food doesn't taste as bad as it usually does. Ms. Vogel certainly was nice today.

I finish up my tray and prepare to take it back to the cafeteria. I still have a headache, but it's not as bad as it was a few minutes ago. I step out of my teacher's office, and the confused expression haunts me once again. What was she so confused about? Then I think over the few moments leading up to it, and it suddenly clicks as though someone had dropped a rock off the Eiffel Tower and it landed squarely in my stomach. She was confused because she hadn't been trying to be nice. She'd been trying to punish me.

* * *

The rest of the day passes insignificantly. I had ascended to watch over myself, but once the final bell rang, I'd bolted to the library, and being in a secure environment once more, relaxed comfortably inside myself. I feel an uneasy tug in my stomach as I stand there in the library. How will Al and Winry react to hearing about my outburst at lunch? I won't likely tell them anything, but knowing Ms. Vogel, she probably got on the phone right after lunch and left a message on our answering machine. I really hope they won't hate me...

I would rather stay here, amongst loads of friendly books, for as long as they'll allow me to stay here. This is a nice, safe place, so long as it doesn't get overcrowded and I push my worrying out of consciousness for now.

I grab a scattered stack of books on both Alchemy and Psychology since I can't make up my mind what to study at the moment, and I look around for a table. A few kids walk in, and I bristle at their presence, wondering how many more will follow them in. I am not willing to share a table with any of them.

Then I notice the girl from the other day coming through the door. She stops, scans the room, then starts toward the table I'd seen her in the last time I was here. I clutch my books to my chest. She's the only person in this school I find respectful enough to sit next to, but I don't know how to ask. I always botch up my requests.

On her way to the table, she catches sight of me, smiles, and then averts her eyes. "Are you... looking for a place to sit?"

I nod, then realize there are still a million tables open. Why would she ask something like that if she doesn't even have to sacrifice her private table? She sounds like she's about to make an offer, anyway. My communication skills are a bit iffy.

She inhales. "You can sit at my table if you want." She's still offering? Even with all the empty tables available? I think she sees my confused look, because she explains, 'You sitting there keeps the scary people from sitting there."

She tightens her hold on her books and drops her gaze to the floor. I can relate to that problem. There are a lot of scary people in this school, and I guess we mutually agree that the other of us isn't one of them.

"Okay," I say, and then add, "Thanks."

She nods, then leads us to her table.

I awkwardly plop my books down, then sit and stare across the table. I'm hoping she doesn't notice my intrusion and take offense at my behavior, but this is how I tend to meet new people. I sit and stare at them for a while before attempting conversation. Hardly anyone agrees with my social methods, and consequently I don't have many friends.

She looks up from her book briefly, sees me staring at her, averts her eyes, and smiles. She doesn't seem to mind my behavior, and I can't help but wonder at that. _Everyone_ minds my behavior. Does that mean there's something wrong with her? How could anything be amiss with a girl who seems so... normal? Granted, she's the first normal person I've seen in a long time.

She looks up from her book again, and then back to her reading. I should probably be reading too. I'm probably being rude just staring at her like this. I should probably just ask her name, but I can't make myself do it. What if I do something wrong and she hates me because of it? She feels like a friend already; I don't want to lose her that quickly.

She closes her book and looks up, smiling. The smile doesn't reach her eyes. She's forcing it. Is she nervous or is she mad at me? What am I supposed to do?

"Um," she begins, looking awkward herself, "Is something wrong?"

I shake my head wildly. I must drive the notion clear out of her head, clear out of the room. There is nothing wrong, nothing to worry about, except that I might be some kind of a freak who stares at people.

"Heh," She drops her eyes. "You look like you want to ask me something."

Now I drop my gaze in mutual respect of her. I'm that obvious? No one else can ever tell what I want. Maybe this girl's just some sort of fortune teller or soothsayer or something equally improbably. People like that exist, right?

A whisper. "Are you mad at me?" I blink and look back up at her. That had come from someone other than myself? There are other people who feel like everyone is out to get them the way I do?

I shake my head again, but I realize I need to actually say something she she's barely looking at me. "Of course I'm not mad at you. Why would I be mad at you?"

"Because everyone gets mad at me." And she clutches her shoulders and starts to rock back and forth in her seat.

I extend a steadying hand and place it on one of her shoulders, not to stop the movement, but to help her realize she's rocking in public and might get funny looks from people, if she cares what the people think. I usually don't notice I'm rocking until someone tells me, and maybe she's the same way.

It seems my guess is right, because she stops rocking and switches to kicking her feet under the table. People don't usually get mad at that so long as you only kick the air, so I smile and let her go, not yet sure where her touching boundaries lie.

"I'm not mad at you," I say, and before I can stop myself, "I just have a really hard time making friends." I feel embarrassed upon admitting this and am positive now that she'll consider me a complete dorkwad, so I avert my gaze to avoid the look of scorn that is sure to cross her face.

It is then that she reaches out and returns the gesture of putting a hand on my shoulder, and I realize to my chagrine that I had been rocking, but she doesn't have a mean look on her face. She seems to speak my language and know what I'm going through.

"I don't have any friends either." I stare at her in amazement. A sweet girl like her, not have any friends? How could that be possible?

"That's ridiculous!" I retort, "Everybody should want to be your friend!"

She shrugs, and I let out an aggravated sigh. This isn't right. The world just likes to cast off perfectly good and sweet people. It's so unfair. Something has to be done about it. I summon up my courage and say, "Well, I'm willing to be your friend if you want." I falter, then add, "If you'll have me."

The smile comes back to her face, and this time it does seem to reach her eyes. I can't help but offer a smile in return. Something about her just makes sense to me.

"You really want to be my friend?"

I cough. Of course I want to be her friend, but I'm not sure she'll reciprocate the emotion once she gets to know me. "I'm not sure I'm worth having as a friend though."

She either doesn't hear or doesn't care, because the next moment she flaps her hands and squeals, then says, "I'm Schieszca."

Now I can introduce myself. "I'm Edward." We both then shake hands across the table. It seems like the right thing to do when you just introduce yourself to someone.

We don't get much reading done that day since we're too busy talking, but by the time the bell rings, we've both promised to come to the school library every day after school if we can. I plan to look her up on Facebook when I get home, but I don't have the guts to ask her if she even has an account.

We part company with happy dreams in our eyes and head to our respective homes. Nothing could shatter this pleasant bubble I'm finally able to enjoy.

And then I remember the incident in the lunch room, and I breathe deeply, thinking of Al's and Winry's reaction. I could wait until later to go home, but Schieszca's messy-haired face pops into my head. If I want to look her up, I have to go home, so I'm going home.

And I pray I'm not walking into Dante's Inferno.

**_Hope you liked the chapter. Feel free to share what you think, and check back soon because I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can get it typed. Thanks for reading!_**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Hey, everybody! Sorry I haven't uploaded anything in ages. I've been going through quite a bit of writer's block lately and am having a hard time licking it. I'm still going through it, but I found a couple chapters of this story that I had written previously and hadn't yet uploaded, so here you go! Hope you enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. I'd come up with something more witty, but like I said, writer's block. :P**_

Edward steps into his own house apprehensively and tries to shut the door without making a sound. His mind screams that there's something wrong with walking on tiptoe around one's own house, but it doesn't register with his brain.

He tries to walk to his room quietly, but is interrupted by Winry en route through the kitchen.

"Edward? Can we talk?"

He wants to say no. He wants to run to his room and slam the door and forbid anyone from coming into his personal space, but his body does what it pleases, and he finds himself dumbly nodding. A lump forms at his throat and he can't swallow.

Winry takes a seat at the dining room table and gestures for him to do likewise, but he refuses. Sitting is too vulnerable. She she shrugs. "Fine." She smooths her hair back from her face and sighs, bringing herself forward to rest her elbow on the table.

"I got a really disturbing phone call from Ms. Vogel today."

And just like that, the bottom of Edward's stomach falls out, and he clutches at his abdomen in pain, but Winry doesn't seem to notice. Instead, she says, "Care to explain to me what happened at lunch?"

Edward does not want to explain it. He wants to go to his room and hide out the rest of the day. He smacks his head a few times to try to trigger a valid response, but none comes, and the anxiety of having to perform makes him rock on his heels. Winry was going to hate him now.

"Edward, calm down. It's okay!" Winry leaps up and throws her arms around Edward, but it doesn't make him calm down. How dare he overreact like this and make things miserable for the ones he loves, and then not even calm down when they try to make him feel loved? All this does is make him rock harder.

And then the unmanly sobs make an appearance again. He really hates himself when he gets like this. It's so disgusting for a man to cry over trivial things like lunch break, but he can't help it. The emotions are too strong, and they the ones in control, not him.

Winry hugs him even tighter. "I still love you, Ed. I was just worried about what happened in school today, that's all."

He has to try to speak, though he's not sure if he can. "A k-k-k-k-kid pu-ushed me." The longer he tries to speak, the higher his voice rises in pitch. He sounds like such a wimp. He hopes Winry won't make him talk much more.

"A kid pushed you?" says Winry, and Edward nods. "So what did you do?"

"I-I-I y-yelled for him (gasp) to l-leave (gasp) me alone."

"And did he?"

Edward shakes his head again, and Winry sighs. "So then, what did you do after that?"

He sniffles. "Yelled some more."

"Did you say anything mean?"

He shakes his head.

"Did you hurt him or push him back or anything?"

He shakes his head again and says, "N-No-just-to leave me-alone."

Winry starts stroking Edward's hair and pulls him in closer. "It's okay," she says, "It sounds like it was all just a big misunderstanding, but you're going to have to learn to stop being so sensitive sooner or later. Bullies always pick on the sensitive ones."

Edward nods at this, but doesn't say anything. He's tried to stop being so sensitive many a time, and has failed just as often. The thought of yet another form of failure looming over his head, separating him from normalcy makes him feel rotten inside.

He can't think of anything else to say, and so he just stands there, waiting for Winry to respond. Perhaps she knows how upset he is about being too sensitive. She certainly seems to know that brushing her fingers through his hair calms him down, because she starts doing that, and he does calm down a little bit.

"I'll call Ms. Vogel and explain what you told me, Edward, so you don't have to worry yourself over it." Edward still doesn't know what to say, so he just nodes and grunts. Winry speaks up again. "Why don't you go and relax in your room for a while? I'll call you when dinner's done."

Edward thanks her, smothers her with a hug, and hobbles to his room. That ordeal had left him with barely enough energy to even stand.

He reaches his room, and as he turns the doorknob, I finally fall back into my body. I shudder as the integration takes place and I realize I'm living in the present once more. Being pulled back just after a crisis is almost as hard on me as being pulled back during one.

Rummaging under the bed, I find Al's old laptop and whip it out. The guy never thought to come looking for it in my room, so I figured I wasn't hurting anyone by keeping it. Al had recently gotten a new laptop anyway, so he wasn't missing it.

I flip it open and boot it up, tapping my feet as I wait for the old dinosaur computer to figure out what it's doing. Shapes dance before my eyes as I wait, and I count them: one, two, three, four, five colors.

The computer's booted up, and I open up the browser and hop over to Facebook. It's rather surprising how many "friends" I have on Facebook who never talk to me in real life. I guess I look somewhat normal online. Either that, or I just have an ugly face. Who's to say? Nobody tells me what they detest about me.

I type Schiezsca's name into the searc bar, and a list of other Schiezscas pop up, most of them having it as their last name. That made sense. At least it would make it easier to narrow down who was who.

I refine the search by typing in the name of my school, and sure enough, one result remains, and it's a first name Schiezsca, not as last name Schiezsca. That has to be her.

Checking out what's visible in her profile, she does seem to be the girl I know, and so I send a friend request, hoping I'm right. Hoping I'm not being creepy and stalkerish.

I don't have much I need to do until she replies, if she does, so I decide to just blow my brains out playing some stupid online games. They're good for distraction, but they're awfully boring.

About two rounds into the second game, I notice a little red square up by the menus on the top of the page. Abandoning my game, I pull down the menu, and sure enough, Schiezsca has accepted my friend request. I'm unsure whether to feel elated or sick, so I split the difference and do a little of both, wondering if it's severe enough to go to the bathroom.

I decide to wait and just check out her profile first. My eyes widen to the size of silver dollars. This girl's a Facebook freak! Every day she has ten new status messages-at least-and that's not counting all the apps and games she uses.

I shake my head amusedly and read one of her statuses, talking about one of the books she's just read, and it gives a link to a note she wrote for further expounding on this supposedly amazing book.

And then my eyes bug out again as I click the link and begin to read. It's not the typical book report about the message of the book. It's anyone's guess whether she even realizes it has a message, since she spends the entire passage talking about the amazing wording and quoting large chunks of the book at a time.

I can't read the whole thing. I don't know how anyone could. I scroll down to see if anyone's commented, and sure enough, there is one comment from a girl named Rudy. "So you've already memorized that book I gave you last month? Geez, you go through books fast."

To which, Schiezsca replies, "Yes, I've memorized it in full now. Do you have any more I could read?"

"Not now," says Rudy, "How can you stand reading books like that anyway? You'll read such dull books."

"No!" says Schiezsca, "The words in each book I read are superb. They all have their own life and their own story. That last book you gave me told the story of purple, blue, and green."

"Pride and Prejudice?" says Rudy, "You're just psycho, Shes. How do you live with yourself?"

There are no more entries to the conversation, and I'm tempted to leave it at that, but I hate the tone of this "Rudy" person. So what if Schiezsca likes to memorize her books, even if that is a bit freakish? And seeing colors in words is not insane. That how I am with numbers.

Nope, I can't just sit back and do nothing when I have a chance to stand up for the underdog for once. So I type, "Whether it's normal for someone to see colors in words or not, is it normal for someone to act just like their name sounds? At least when I'm rude, people can't blame it on my name."

I hit enter and submit it and can't help but laugh. That's a calmer tactic than I normally employ, but it's fun sometimes to make a person feel stupid before going for the kill. This has the potential to be a lot of fun. Maybe I should write a special poem about Rudy, just in case.

As I'm pondering the first couple lines of my proposed poem, a chat window appears in the corner of my screen. Schiezsca was saying, "Oh my God, you told off Rudy?"

"Yeah," I type back, "She was being a bitch. She needed someone to tell her off."

There is a pause and I wonder whether I've misjudged the whole thing and offended Schiezsca. I would have to go and hurt my new friend just after we officially became friends, wouldn't I? Why couldn't I just leave well enough alone?

To which Schiezsca responds, "I so want to hug you right now."

I sigh in relief. She's okay with it. I did the right thing. I accurately perceived the bitchyness of this Rudy person.

"But Rudy's not going to be happy," she says.

"I can handle that," I type back.

"Seriously?" she says, "I don't think you realize just how mean she can get about this. She's tried to force me to be 'normal' for years!"

"Welcome to my world," I say, "I already deal with crap on a daily basis from everyone I meet. It's easier to deal with if I'm cleaning up someone else's crap."

I wait for a moment, and all she says is, "Ew." And I feel ashamed. I've made another social blunder. Will it never end? Will she hate me for something stupid like this?

Then she responds with, "But I don't want to thrust my pile of crap onto your already gargantuan pile.."

I chuckle. She doesn't care about my social ineptitude and just goes right along with it. I can work with this.

"How about this?" I say, "I clean up your crap when I can, and you clean up my crap when you can?"

"How would I clean up yours?" she asks.

"I don't know yet," I say, "But if you see something you can help with, go ahead and do it."

"Okay," she says, and I feel a smile poking itself out. "Oh, I have to go to dinner, so I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Later," I say, and then I log out and lean back onto my bed. This was a weird friendship. Where would it lead?

* * *

Then next day finds me sitting across from Schiezsca again at the school library. Before she could open her book, I blurt out, "So who the hell is this Rudy character, anyway?"

She stifles a chuckle, then rewards me with a glance in my direction. "My cousin. She's always been a bit antagonistic towards me."

"But why?" I ask. Schiezsca shrugs, so I take this as my cue to drop it. For now.

I try to read silently with her, but it isn't long before she blurts out, "Pink words!" Then she gets sheepish and apologizes, as though she had committed a heinous crime.

I shake my head. "It's fine if the words are all funny colors to you. It's not hurting anyone, is it?"

She sighs. "I guess not." I try to go back to my reading, but she's not done yet. "Is it really that weird for words to have colors?"

I scrutinize her with a raised eyebrow. "You're asking _me_ what's normal?"

She chuckles, but I can still see her pain. It looks like I won't be getting much reading done today, so I shove my book to the side and give her my full attention.

"I think people are just scared of what they don't understand," I say, sounding smarter than I think I am. "They don't understand your colors, so they want to get rid of them." I pause. "Maybe they're just jealous."

She smirks, but the smile doesn't last long. "Do you understand my colors?"

Tricky question. Should I tell her about my floating colors? Would she write me off as crazy if I do? She perceives words as different colors, she doesn't see floating colors so far as I know. They're probably unrelated, so I'd better not mention it. "Well," I scratch my head, "Maybe I sometimes see different colors with numbers?"

Her face brightens up even as I say that, and she throws herself across the table then and there to hug me. I gulp, feeling awkward, but not knowing what to do, I leave her alone about it and hope things work themselves out.

"I'm so glad to finally meet another person with synesthesia!" she says.

"Sinner-what?"

She laughs, manages to clamp her mouth shut to keep herself quiet in the library, then unclasps her arms from around me and sits back in her seat. "Synesthesia," she says, "It's how I memorize all those books."

"Let me get this straight," I say, "You memorize _whole books_?"

She nods.

"Word for word?"

She nods.

I scratch my head. "...How?"

"The colors!" She throws her hands up in the air like she's flustered at me for being a dunce about the whole thing, and maybe I am, but I'm trying to understand.

She continues. "Every word I see is a different color, and every book strings all these words together like a zillion colored beads. I just remember the book by how it looks."

Talk about baffling. I never knew someone could actually do something like that. And she thinks I'm like her? Not a chance...

Her eyebrows knit together. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, nothing." I bite my nail. "That's just-well-wow. I have no words to say." To tell the trust, I'm almost uncomfortable in the presence of this memorization master. Not enough to get up and leave though. I'm too intrigued and I want to hear more.

I take a deep breath and risk looking like a doofus. "So, what exactly is this-Syn-Syne-"

"Synesthesia," she says, "That's pretty much what they call it when you get your senses all jumbled up and sense them at weird times."

"Like seeing colors while reading a book," I finish.

She nods. "Or smelling cheese every time you play middle C."

Cheesy notes sound too funny, and I find myself laughing right alongside her. We get a warning glance from the librarian, but it's hard to stop. I get a mental image of someone asking Beethoven how he could still write music when he was deaf, and him answering, "It smells like cheese."

* * *

As soon as the library closes, I race home. I'm hoping to find Al there so I can talk to him about what Schiezsca and I were discussing at the library. I push open the door, and Winry, as ever, is in the kitchen.

"Hey, Winry," I say, looking around, "Where's Al?"

She cracks an egg into a bowl. "He's in his room."

"Okay, thanks." I drop my books and race to Al's room, only to remember that Winry hates it when I leave my stuff in the middle of the floor. Oh well, I'll pick it up soon. This is too important right now.

I walk into Al's room, catch the slightly annoyed look on Al's face, and realize I made yet another social faux pas. After apologizing for forgetting to knock, I ask, "Al, have you ever heard of something called Syn-Syne-" I clear my throat and try again. "Synesthesia?"

"No," says Al, "What's that?"

"This girl I just met says she has it," I say. "She says it's this weird thing where your senses get all mixed up and such. Like-" I pause, trying to regain my foothold on this information. "Like she says when she reads, every word has it's own color, so she's able to memorize entire books that way."

"She sounds like a savant," says Al.

Huh, I hadn't thought of that. Maybe she is.

"So why are you asking me about Synesthesia?" asks Al. "Are you just curious because of your friend, or do you think you have it?"

I shrug. How am I supposed to know? I barely know what this Synesthesia thing is myself. "She says I have it."

"Uh huh," says Al. "Sounds like she's just looking for support. You probably don't have it, but if it makes you feel better, I'll research it for you, okay?"

I nod and say, "Okay," then realizing I have no further business with Al, thank him and leave the room. I've got business with the computer instead.

I whip out Al's old laptop and open up the browser. "So, Al thinks Schiezsca's a savant, huh?" No wonder she feels so alone if that's the case. There certainly aren't that many savants around.

I type "savant" into Google and then click on an article about Savant Syndrome. The article stretches for pages and pages on all the experiments that have been done with savants, none of which I want to read.

Finally I find the good stuff. It seems there are three different savant groups:

Splinter Skills

Talented Savants

and Prodigious Savants

Splinter skills seem to be skills that appear in stark contrast to a person's disability. Something one doesn't expect the person can do, but they do it anyway.

Talented Savants are also people who contrast their disability with a skill, but it's a genuine talent. Something that many people wish they could do, but only some can.

Prodigious Savants, however, are those freaky people who bowl everybody over with their particular skill. It's so amazing that it doesn't matter whether the person has a disability or not. Geez, do I know a Prodigious Savant? People certainly freak out over her skill.

On an act of inspiration, I copy the link and paste it onto Schiezsca's wall for all to see. Hopefully that'll get through to Rudy. Speaking of...

I look back at the thread where I'd insulted Rudy, and sure enough, she's responded. "You must be an idiot to waste all your time defending freaks, or maybe you're a freak yourself!"

I feel a tug in my stomach as the words sink in, and a pleasant feeling of rage begin to bubble up inside of me. _You shouldn't have said that, Rudy._ I smile to myself as the mischief unfolds in my mind. _Because now you're going down!_

_**Hope you all enjoyed that chapter. Would you all be willing to help me with the writer's block? There's a webinar I want to attend, but can't afford at the moment, so I'm trying to win a ticket. In order to win that ticket, I have to be one of the top two people with the most "Likes" on my comment by Friday. You could help me greatly by going to the address and liking my comment.**_

_**Here's all you have to do. Just go to this address: .com/mind-power/win-a-ticket-to-writers-hour/ If that didn't appear, here it is with a space between every character, so remove the spaces: h t t p : / / w w w . f i n e r m i n d s . c o m / m i n d - p o w e r / w i n - a - t i c k e t - t o - w r i t e r s - h o u r / scroll down until you see my name, Melissa McLean, and "Like" my comment.**_

_**As a side note, anyone who wants to become my Facebook friend is welcome to send me a message on Facebook telling me who you are ((basically that you're one of my FFN fans)), and I'll consider accepting your friend request. Just thought I'd put that out there, haha.**_

_**Anyway, a huge thank you to anyone who decides to help me out here. It would be enormously helpful to me if I got to listen to this webinar, and I might be able to write more here soon if I do. One can hope, right?**_

_**In any case, until next time, take care, and have a nice day!**_


End file.
